


Everlasting Song

by AmethystTribble



Series: Everlasting Song [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Again, Brotherly Love, Family Feels, Feanor is 'Sir Not Apprearing in this Fic', Feanorions fuck shit up, Gen, everyone is family and not family and it hurts, everyone is trying but confused and sad and I'm sorry, guess who made it a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: In retrospect, Feanor’s oath should have been more specific. He swore his and his sons’ souls to ‘everlasting darkness’, intending for the void, prison of Morgoth. Eru Iluvatar has taken it differently.Their souls have been placed into true darkness, that which has no concept of light at all, and forsaken to a fate without respite or belonging. They have been absorbed into the very song of creation itself, doomed to act as pawns and focal points and combustion in a dark place they know not. They are to be without the light of the Eldar.Where have they awoken?In winter of the year 271 AC, a long-awaited son is born into House Tully. They name him, rather oddly and for reasons never adequately explained, Maedhros.





	Everlasting Song

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the world, characters, or plot of either the works of J.R.R. Tolkien or George R.R. Martin, and I do not claim to. Similarly, I use a song in this fic owned and written by (Maglor) the band Blind Guardian (who's lead singer is Maglor), called 'The Bard's Song - In the Forest'. It is fantastic, and you should listen to it, though you don't have to for the sake of this fic.

In the dark hours of a long winter’s night, during the year of 271 AC, Hoster Tully’s third child was born. The midwife did not expect him to survive the coming, cold month, much like his brother years before. Despite the too small babe’s prospects, though, his parents named him, rather oddly and for reasons never adequately explained, Maedhros. 

His sisters, seven and five respectively, could both remember hovering over his cradle anxiously, the younger on her tip-toes, but never touching, for fear of making him ill. The maester didn’t give good prospects, still, a month later. He was too small, and he never cried. Healthy babies wailed, but wee Maedhros simply stared at all who held or cooed or prodded at him. There was always, Catelyn would giggle, a look about his face as if he was surprised and confused to be there. “Maedhros is embarrassed that he came early,” little Lysa then laughed, dutifully following the heels of her sister’s joke.

Hoster, anxious and without sleep, never cared for this jape at all. He’d snap at the girls, but Minisa would just shake her head and continue to rock her son, bruises under eyes pronounced and frame too thin. But, as the months dragged on and Maedhros never did take that expected turn for the worse, she would smile a little, and say, in a way that was far too heavy to be taken as a jape, “Maybe we just weren’t what he was expecting. Maedhros is simply worried he’s wandered into the wrong family. Let’s give him some time to get used to us.”

Catelyn would think, years later, about her mother’s words, wonder if perhaps if there was a bit of the gift of a seer in her. Or if it was just mother’s intuition.

But in those early years, as Maedhros grew out of the frailty of infancy, life for the Tully children was joyous and uncomplicated. With abandon Catelyn would hoist the toddler on her hip, and all three would go out to the rivers. Maedhros would run on stubby legs after a shrieking Lysa in the shallow water, and the girls would wash everyone’s thick hair, the same bright, shining red. Their baby brother never cried on their adventures, he was full of good cheer, a laughing child with buckets of charm, and a fantastic playmate. 

Father, free from the fear of losing another child, once claimed, with a twinkle in his eye, that her feared for the girls of the Riverlands in a few years. Already, he’d chuckle, all the womenfolk, be they relative, granny, or lady, were besotted with their little boy. 

Minisa laughed at such jokes, and when her children came dashing home soaked to the bone and filthy she simply scooped the little ones into her arms and peppered each one with kisses. But Maedhros certainly received more for his enthusiastic, but uncoordinated, return of all affection. “A charmer indeed!”

Three and a half years after that terrifying December when the heir to Riverrun was born, another son came to them. This one, bequeathed Edmure much to the relief of the rest Seven Kingdoms who were expecting another odd name, was healthy from the start. Hoster and Minisa, and their children, were beside themselves with joy, and emboldened by their success.

Two years later, Minisa died in the birthing bed. The child, a boy, followed four days later.

Laughter and love never truly returned to Riverrun. At least, not the same way.

Catelyn was twelve, and a very dutiful girl. Swiftly and well, she overtook her mother’s tasks and responsibilities, becoming strict and severe from the responsibilities taken on too soon. It would be fair to say that she, also, assumed the role of her siblings mother. Or, at least, tried to. Her good intentions were met with more and less success with each sibling. 

Lysa, barely two years her junior, was already inconsolable and bed-bound in the wake of their mother’s loss. She rejected Catelyn and all attempts at comfort wholesale. But she also needed guidance, and always sought out Catelyn for everything her mother could no longer give. Edmure, who held no memories of Minisa within a year, would always remember Catelyn as the sole mother of his youth, and was bereft after they lost her to Ned Stark in but six years. Maedhros was solemn, noted to have been the child that cried the most at their mother’s funeral, and still so very small. And, yet, even at that age, he seemed not to need or want Catelyn’s clumsy attempts at mothering, though he bore it with enviable kindness.

But Maedhros was still a little boy, and, despite his resilience, the loss made their happy, bouncy brother quiet for a long time. He was overtaken with a melancholy that even he didn’t understand, and wise eyes that understood grief better than they should. The feelings of certainty and gaping emptiness frightened him awfully, and many a night would find Maedhros in Hoster’s room, never Catelyn’s like Lysa and Edmure, shaking and weeping.

Children, though, are elastic. Riverrun returned to some mockery of normality, and the Tullys smiled and laughed again. Maedhros, who for a long time was grief-stricken to the point of worry, shot up like a weed and went to work in the training yards during the next years with great enthusiasm. He took to hefting up Edmure and carrying his brother around with unparalleled glee, though he was still to small to do so for long or with great skill. Hoster remembered, even late in his years, with great joy the day Maedhros tried to carry Lysa like a maid in the songs and sent them both tumbling down a hill. 

For several seasons, it seemed as if all was good again, at least to the children who hadn’t needed to worry about mad kings yet.

Then, in 279, three years after Minisa’s death, King Aerys II burned someone alive. A cousin of his, someone he was displeased with. The Tullys did not know the son of the Prince of the Dragonflies, the one who, in honor of his father’s abdication from the throne, carried the name Blackfyre. They still went to the funeral. Aerys, in fact, had demanded it. He had, seemingly beyond reason, turned on a head and instantly mourned the murder of his kinsman, though didn’t acknowledge his hand in it. He sent out an edict making all the lords, which his Hand quickly made ‘all capable to travel in time’, attend the funeral, and erected a massive tomb in his honor, right in the Red Keep.

Lannisters soldiers would later destroy it during their siege.

Meadhros was eight. He was always easier than most other children, more capable and more knowing, but he was still just a child. He had two sisters and a little brother, who he loved more than air. He would do anything to make Father proud, of that he was sure, and he cried when Lysa told scary stories. He missed his mother dearly. 

Maedhros was a Tully.

He stared up at the coat of arms crafted for the Blackfyre who should have been king, on a summer day when he was eight years-old, and was never sure of that again.

On the massive slab of black stone there was a star. It had eight points and a circle in the middle. Under that sigil, it was inscribed:

_Feanor Blackfyre_  
_Son of the Prince of the Dragonflies and Jenny of Oldstones_  
_247-279, After Aegon’s Conquest_

Not many knew that Maedhros Tully fainted at the funeral of Feanor Blackfyre, the quick action and subtle covers of Catelyn and Petyr Baelish ensuring that he was removed without incident or insult. A few more people noted the pronounced difference in the boy after that day. Many, as the years blurred the past together, merely said it was the rebellion that finally silenced the child and gave him such horrendous nightmares. Others claimed he simply grew up, as all young children do. There was support for that theory, as the oddness in his behaviour certainly diminished in his adulthood, even if his handsome face always did look far older than his actual age.

But, Catelyn knew it was that day which irrevocably changed her little brother, and took him from them.

Before her eyes, in the year after Feanor Blackfyre’s death, Maedhros grew silent and ponderous. He seemed like a man in a boy’s body, far too intuitive, far too tired and haunted, and he was distant, emotionally, from his siblings. On paper, his behaviour didn’t change much. He’d always been quiet, even when cheerful. Maedhros always went to his studies with great discipline, he took up a sword with patience, helped guide Edmure and followed at Father’s heels whenever the opportunity arose. In everything he did, from a very young age, Maedhros strove for perfection and, more importantly, he worked to make his father proud.

This was different, though. All his actions suddenly held an edge of… severity. None of his actions seemed un-planned anymore. His cheer and smiles, Catelyn knew deep in her heart, were false. Tricks put on for their benefit.

Catelyn looked at Maedhros, all of eight, and felt like she was meeting eyes with a stranger.

The sensation faded, mostly because, she felt, Catelyn grew to know and love this stranger who took away the little boy she grew up with. As an adult, a woman changed herself, she consoled herself with the notion that Maedhros was simply shaken that day, and frightened, and preparing himself for a world ruled by the Mad King. He was steeling himself to be of use, putting away the boy by trying to become the future Lord of the Riverlands. The feverency with which he plead to go to war with Father certainly supported this theory.

He was denied, naturally, still only a boy of eleven. Maedhros wasn’t even allowed to squire. But in their Father’s absence, he managed Riverrun and the surrounding lands with enviable ability. Too much ability, perhaps, someone might have noticed if they weren’t so frightened and grief-stricken and busy. Hoster was simply relieved his son proved a worthy heir, to occupied being proud of him and grateful for peace to give it much thought.

It never crossed anyone’s mind that Maedhros might have managed an estate in wartime before.

He kept those thoughts to himself, and all the other strange images and lessons from the him-who-was-like-a-Child-of-the-Forest. An elf, Russandol whispered, but Maedhros kept those things locked away, carefully catalogued in secret journals for future use and analysis. He copied his nightmares down, lest there be a battle strategy or lesson in diplomacy to be learned. He recited all those old history and science lessons taken in the days before the sun. Tried his hand at magic songs. Maedhros even studiously recorded all the names he could remember, lest he come across those people. After all, if Feanor, _Father, Father, Atar_ , was in Westeros as well, why not Amrod or Fingon?

It became easier, as he grew, to balance the frightful flux of memories and stray, wrong, thoughts. He was pretty sure that as he grew that line between Maedhros-who-was and Maedhros-who-is blurred. The prospect, at sixteen, didn’t frighten him as much as it did at eight.

In fact, he was relieved, happy that he’d managed to sort his own mind and find some peace, because it swiftly became obvious what he needed to do. How he and his elvish life were needed.

Maedhros met Maglor Sand at a tourney, and in that instant he knew that his little brothers needed him again. They had a war to fight, a silent war, the same one as always. Them against the world. Bereft of purpose and alone as Maedhros had been, when he watched Makalaure collapse under the weight of what had just awakened within him, he could have cried in relief.

__________________________________________________________________________

Maglor was his father’s first and only son, born to him when he was still young. His mother was several years older than her lover, and a wandering minstrel from Essos. Myr, Maglor thinks. No one was sure, though, not even Fyira, allegedly. When he was small and she still tarried in Westeros, Mama always said she had been wandering so long she wasn’t sure where she was from anymore. Maglor was pretty positive that was a lie now, a sweet little tale to tell an impressionable child, but he hadn’t dared go asking after her in Myr all the same, least it be true.

Fyira left Westeros when Maglor was almost eight. She and her child had spent the past six years wandering around the Seven Kingdoms, playing for anyone who would hear them, even the tourney at Harrenhal. Then, suddenly and all at once, they went back to Dorne. Maglor did not remember Dorne, or the father Fyira excitedly placed him in the arms of. What he did remember, branded into his memory with a haunting finality, was watching her wave, all cheer, lute strapped to her back, from a ship that was sailing away. He could still envision his own tiny hands, not yet coordinated enough for the lyre he was already showing aptitude for, reaching out, how he struggled in his alleged father’s arms, wailing for the entire dock to hear. He cried all the way back to the Water Gardens.

He wasn’t old enough, yet, to realize that war was on the horizon. That Fyira had seen the tension at Harrenhal and contacted her child’s father, demanding he return to Westeros. In the months it took for the appropriate letters to travel the Narrow Sea, Elia Martell’s position grew precarious. Then banners were called. It was decided that Oberyn Martell would come home. Fyira declared she would be sailing back to Essos. It was agreed, without Maglor’s consent, that he would stay in the land of his birth.

Oberyn and Fyira met each other, after seven years separation, on the docks of Sunspear. They traded custody of Maglor. Fyira jumped onto the ship Oberyn just got off of, Sarella’s mother’s ship, and that was it. Neither father nor son had seen or heard from her since.

That first year was singularly awful. First and foremost, it was lonely. There was Arianne, barely five, and her newly born younger brother, but she was wild and loud and noble, and quite frankly she sacred Maglor when he was young. Though there were plenty of people ready and willing to be kind to him, all the servants, the Lord and Lady, his cousin, and Father, he was unused to anyone’s company but Mama. He shied away from them. There was, also, a tension in the home of House Martell, one that stirred action and took up time, so, no one put in too much effort to pay attention to quiet little Maglor. 

It was a wild, scary time, and Maglor spent most of it hiding in bushes and under drapes picking at the lyre Mama left him. Hardly ever did people look for him. Except for Arianne, on occasion, who took great delight in finding where ever he was sequestered and jumping out, frightening him half to death.

News came that someone named Elia and her children were dead. Father was apoplectic. Maglor hid under a table covering his ears and screwing his eyes shut, but was still forced to listen to the carnage, and he couldn’t shake the searing image of a fleet of burning ships from behind his eyes. Mama waves from them.

After the Rebellion, when Oberyn was forced to admit that it was well and truly over, for now, he went about occupying his time and soothing his grief by collecting his daughters. Arianne was beside herself in excitement, but while the father he still barely knew phrased his intentions as a good thing, Maglor dreaded the company of more people. He was beset with the odd surety, and all the worries that came with it, that siblings mean loudness and fighting and putting your hands on your hips while small children bite you.

Obara and Tyene came to the Water Gardens at the same time. The tall, rough one was two years older and the blonde, soft one was three years younger, and Maglor could not explain why his first reaction upon meeting them was to whine, “second child, again?”

Obara wrestled him to the ground, then Tyene braided his too long hair, that no one noticed needed a cut and he didn’t insist should be, and things got better. With Tyene to play with, Arianne didn’t delight so much in tormenting him, and when Obara figured out that, while clumsy with a spear, Maglor was fast with knives and a natural with a sword, they bonded. Two years later, the captain of the Feathered Kiss dropped off Nymeria, a year younger than Maglor, for them, and left her own three year-old daughter behind as well.

Nymeria had no interest in music, never would, but was able to play some Essosi instruments he hadn’t seen since Mama left, so they spent a lot of time together. They both knew, more than Obara, what it was to miss your mother and feel foreign, and they both needed a friend, unlike Tyene who was thick as thieves with Arianne. Nym was his dearest friend. 

Even as a toddler, Sarella was terribly smart, and a scholar in the making. She was too little, at the time, to be of much interest to Maglor, but when she was but a little older he grew to love her so fiercely he couldn not bear to see her, more than any other sister, hurt or sad. She was, after all, the baby of the family, for a little while, at least.

Oberyn, during this time, not beset by war or unimaginable loss and rage, started to notice his boy, his only one. Maglor, at nine, knew Father most for false cheer and incandescent fury, more a caricature than a man in the child’s eyes. But, apparently, when Maglor wasn’t paying attention to Oberyn, his father was, at the odd hour, noticing him. 

Two weeks after the arrival of Obara and Tyene, Maglor was awakened and dressed at dawn before being presented to Father in the hall. Oberyn greeted him, wide smile and excited tone, and Maglor gave a half-mumbled reply. He said nothing more as he was guided out the door, and simply followed at Father’s heels, both on foot and a horse, to a shop in Sunspear that sold instruments.

Patiently, Oberyn asked Maglor which ones he could play, and the boy pointed to almost all, remembering fondly the pack on Mama’s back that was filled more with musical equipment than food or clothes. They perused the lyres, the lutes, the flutes, the pipes, the harps, the fiddles, the drums, and the citoles. Maglor already had a lyre, one he loved but was too big for him, so Father bought a smaller one. For practice. He also purchased a syrinx, which even managed to force a giggle from Maglor, who claimed that in Myr they are called ‘panspipes’.

Father asked who Pan is, with a smile so bright and genuine, filled with such joy just from hearing his son’s as of yet tiny voice, that Maglor was blinded and couldn’t answer. But he did twist a firm fist in the back of Father’s shirt, stayed close on the busy streets and even took his hand afterwards, so Oberyn didn’t mind.

They returned home, settled in a secluded part of the Water Gardens, far from his wild sisters and cousins, and Oberyn asked Maglor to teach him to play. He did not answer, he would not find his voice, loud and echoing and beautiful, Oberyn and the Sand Snakes and Sunspear’s pride, for several years yet. But Maglor did take Father’s fingers and move them to the appropriate places on the flute. By dinnertime, Oberyn could play the first verse of The Dornishman’s Wife. Doran pretended to be scandalized and Mellario scolded them, but Oberyn and Maglor both giggled, so all was well.

By age ten, Maglor realized that he loved Dorne, the Water Gardens, his father, and his sisters, very, very much. He even loved Arianne, and adored her little brothers. The remainder of his childhood was spent in mischief, doing stupid things like crossing rivers and challenging bandits. He, Obara, and Nym were more than close, and while they didn’t go looking for trouble like Tyene and Arianne, they did go looking for fights and bars. Maglor fell quickly behind his sisters in combat skill, but did well enough that Uncle Doran recommended he become a knight.

Doran had a, brief, scheme to make Maglor Mace Tyrell’s squire. It didn’t work out, ultimately, as Maglor had no desire to be a knight. He was a bard, and a bastard, and Oberyn hated the idea from the outset. But his uncle’s short-lived attempt at inter-realm friendship did mean that, in order to understand what squiring would entail and meet the Tyrells, he was at the tourney where Father unseated and crippled Willas Tyrell.

Yet, Maglor hardly even remembered that famed joust. He was too busy making what should have been passing eye contact with an exceptionally tall, red-headed knight, who he absently thought had the same colored eyes as him, before being struck with the most nauseating, terrifying, maddening sensation of his life. It was, in hindsight, probably a good thing Father was too busy caring for Willas Tyrell to notice that Maglor had exited the arena to go empty his stomach in the woods, because he would have been very concerned, and Maglor wouldn't have had answers for him.

It was a terribly awful moment that felt like eternity. A lifetime flashed before his eyes. Maglor saw… everything. Those burning ships that haunted his childhood nightmares, an endless battlefield of carnage, three dead bodies lined up together, _no, no, Obara, Nymeria, Tyene_ , a red-headed corpse on a beach, _Sarella!_ , two little twins staring at him with baleful eyes, _Elia… Trystane_ , and the bright glowing-light beauty of a gemstone. Suddenly, a searing ache like no other overtook his hand, a phantom pain, and he would have screamed if his throat didn’t feel raw. As if he hadn't spoken in a very long time. The effect of an age, ages of wandering, until he finally faded.

That same knight, _Nelyo_ , led him away, to the tree line, where Maglor could have his episode in private. 

There’s a lot of crying. Weeping and head shaking and, “Makalaure?” 

And, with violently shaking hands, Maglor Sand batted this odd man, _we are not men, we are elves_ , away. “Stop it! That’s not my name.”

Their eyes were the same color.

Maglor told Maedhros Tully, as he learned he was, that under no uncertain conditions to ever speak to him again, before running away. He very resolutely ignored the odd rush of images and sensations and snippets of song. For as long as he could.

They decided to sail home from the Reach, because even if Father didn’t know the whole truth he could see how pallid and ill Maglor looked in those coming days, certainly distracted enough that he couldn't ride without killing himself.

He was not even a squire, but he almost did actually earn his knighthood on that ship ride home, the one which became the first battle of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Their vessel was boarded, and everyone, especially him, was surprised with how he fought with a skill, experience, and ferocity never expected of him. He killed three men. Stabbed an Iron Islander in the stomach, felt that blood drip down his wrist and didn’t even flinch, let alone pause.

In the aftermath, he was honored for saving the life a Lord Patrek Mallister, a boy around Maglor’s age who nearly got himself impaled when he enthusiastically tried to board the attacking vessel.

Maglor declined the title, ultimately, even though the older Lord Mallister went all the way to Oldtown, where the damaged ship docked, to try and insist. That was only the beginning, though, and Maglor could still remember the heaps of praise from all over the Seven Kingdoms pouring in, as well as the multiple offers to squire.

He simply rejected every letter sent, ignored all visitors, not even speaking to Father. He wasn’t sleeping. The visions were too vivid. Instead, feeling ill, he tried to retreat to his lyre. Maglor nearly cried when all he could play was a song that didn’t exist, one he knew deep in his soul and subconsciously called the Noldolante. 

When he got home, Maglor’s new reputation preceded him, and Obara, laughing, gave him the one of the few hugs she ever shared. They went out for drinks and got sloshed that night, Obara trying to celebrate and Maglor attempting to drown his maddened mind, and he thought, not even drunk yet and much to his chagrin, that, ‘she is so like Tyelko.’

Maglor lasted a month before he wrote, in panic, to Maedhros Tully, the stranger with a brother’s face. The brother with a stranger’s name. It was the beginning, a ball in motion. What Maglor didn’t know, yet, was that they couldn’t stop it.

__________________________________________________________________________

Celegorm was absolutely certain, from some of the earliest moments of his life, that he had committed a grave and evil crime. In fact, he came to the conclusion, at the tender age of five, that he was a kinslayer. For none is so cursed as the kinslayer.

He asked his uncle once, in the crypts of the castle of Winterfell, if he killed his father. Lord Eddard could only blink at the boy, and scowl. He demanded to know, with admirable bite, where the child got such an idea, but Celegorm, never frightened or scared of anything, least of all his grisly uncle, merely shrugged. 

“The Mad King killed your father, Celegorm. T’was only he and his family that brought harm to Brandon, your Grandfather, and Aunt Lyanna.” Celegorm would realize, as he grew, that he was the only Stark or Snow child with whom Ned spoke of his siblings and father. Perhaps, because Celegorm was five years Robb and Jon’s senior, and actually remembered them. Most likely it was that he was still a boy in desperate need of his father, someone he didn’t even know well in life.

Despite his uncle’s assurance, though, Ned only reaffirmed his concerns. The Mad King’s Targaryen family killed Father, Grandfather, and Aunt Lyanna. And Celegorm had heard the word ‘Targaryen’ enough in his earliest years to know he had some dirty blood in his veins. In his hair, his Mother’s eyes.

No. Celegorm Snow was most definitely cursed. He knew, deep in his bones, that he was a kinslayer, and probably worse. The Old Gods were displeased with him. Why else would they go out of their way, he thought, to pass such petty slights upon him? His hair, which he shared with neither Mother nor Father, was snowy white, something the other children remarked upon constantly, so much so that he nearly broke Theon Greyjoy’s arm. Theon hadn’t know yet that the jape was old. 

There was, also, the very existence of Catelyn Tully, who seemed, to a child, to exist simply to be the bane of his existence. And then there was the matter of his mother’s younger brother, Uncle Gregor, half-uncle, an insistent, odd voice always whispered, who he had been told to call ‘Lord Forrester’ after the war. He did not. This conundrum was followed by the fact that people sneered at Mother, how they treated her like dirt, and how those snobby ladies, including Catelyn Tully, wouldn’t speak to her.

Mother laughed, always unaffected, and would pull him into her lap and say, “I don’t care what those silly birds think of me, least of all a fish, who is just jealous that her intended actually desired me. Listen here, baby, and heed my words. Bastards like us, we are dirt. That is why it is a good thing that the dirt can be trampled upon and still grow things. Gems and gold can do nothing but look pretty. Flowers wither. Flesh and bone turn to dust, but we all return to the dirt of the earth, which never fails and never dies. Better to be dirt while alive, baby, and do some metaphorical growing before we get to actual task.”

Celegorm never listened to her. He did kick a lot of shins and rip quite a few dresses, but, though scolded, he was never punished for it.

Court life in the North never thrived, but what little did exist Celegorm avoided as if it was a poisonous snake. Even when poor, sad little cousin Jon begged him to go, lest he be the only bastard there. Celegorm did all he could for Jon, parroting the advice from his mother that he never followed, and giving him tricks to use as revenge against insult. He taught little Jon how to sew his clothes to make him look nicer, caught him up on all the lessons his teachers failed to give while assisting Robb, stole him sweets and was liberal with affection. Celegorm made certain to ensure everyone in Winterfell and Ironwrath, the Forrester estate where he sometimes lived with Mother, that Jon was his favorite cousin.

But even when bastards stick together, like Celegorm and Mother, there was only so much that could be done. At the end of the day, Celegorm combated his status, the insults, the cruelty, the denial, with being as loud a possible. A nuisance they could not ignore.

_Look at me. Look at the stain on your brother’s honor, look at the child of your faithless betrothed, look at the proof that your sister always knew how little she was valued. You might want to, but you can’t ignore me!_

Jon Snow hid. Dodging stones as opposed to drawing them. Appreciating what he did have, as opposed to scorning what he didn’t.

They were very different strategies.

Childhood at Ironwrath wasn’t bad, in fact, many, Catelyn Tully and Mira’s Septa, said he should be grateful. Celegorm was grateful, to everyone who deserved it. But not very many people, only Mother and Uncle Ned, did.

Naturally, there was tension with strict Uncle Gregor, which was probably where the gripping came from. And, Aunt Elissa didn’t care for the mud he tracked, or how he slept with the hounds on occasion, so there was fighting about that. She, also, did not like the way Mother raised him. “Not raising at all,” Lady Forrester snapped at Jocelyn Forrester, who should have been ‘Snow, and everyone knew it, one day, in Celegorm’s hearing, which was a mistake.

Celegorm was grateful for the fact that he wasn’t one of the smallfolk, even at the age of ten, and he knew well enough to thank the Old Gods and House Forrester for the clothes on his back, the food in his stomach, and the bow in his hands. Especially considering he didn’t actually have an ounce of Forrester blood in his veins. He was grateful Asher shared his cookies with him.

But, when he cut up a pair of Lady Elissa’s small clothes, he wasn’t grateful that his grandmother, Lord Forrester’s mother, had been married off to Thorren Forrester in King’s Landing thirteen weeks pregnant. He wasn’t grateful that Lady Elissa’s Targaryen loyalist family had been willing to keep her new husband’s sister’s secret. He wasn’t grateful that Brandon Stark acknowledged and claimed him, and he wasn’t eternally thankful that he and Mother weren’t left in the snow to die.

Celegorm knew, in an intrinsic, oddly ancient part of himself, that family didn’t ask for gratitude. There wasn’t a price on love, and he did not believe he should have to be thankful for it. And he wasn’t afraid, even as a child, to make sure people knew it.

Thus, it was the general opinion, even among his uncles, that he would be sent the Wall as a criminal before the age of fourteen.

Then, the Old Gods threw the Wild Wolf, as he was already known at eleven, a bone. A bone in the form of Maedhros Tully, a newly minted war hero, freshly returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. He’d decided to hop a boat back from Pyke with the Northmen, and see his sister, nieces, and nephews. It was at Winterfell, one of the many times the boy was all but expelled from Ironwrath, that Maedhros met Celegorm.

At first, Celegorm thought that Lord Tully was rather odd, because he stared at his sister’s bastard nephew as if expecting something. Like he was waiting for some great and terrible feat from the boy covered in sweat, dirt, and the blood of the quail he’d shot and plucked. So, Celegorm crossed his arms and glared back at his bewildered face. If he wanted a show, nothing was coming. 

Celegorm didn’t really speak to Maedhros at all during his stay in Winterfell. All the discussion was done without his consent and behind closed doors. Mother arrived, furious about something she wouldn’t divulge to her son, but apparently she relented. Jocelyn, Ned, Catelyn, and Maedhros agreed to a plan that Celegorm didn’t even know about until he was on a horse headed south. He was going to be Lord Tully’s squire. 

He was eleven. He was a bastard, the son of one who dishonored the Tullys’ eldest daughter. He was a menace, a brat, a criminal! He wanted his mother, and was, though no one had ever outright confirmed it for him, of Targaryen blood and going to get his head cut off in the South! 

Celegorm cried most awfully in his mother’s arms when they told him his fate. He wept more than anyone but Jocelyn had ever seen him cry. The sight broke Ned’s, and even Catelyn’s, hearts. The little boy was still wiping at tears and reaching for his mother as they walked away. 

He hated Maedhros Tully. For a very long time, six months, and went out of his way to get sent home and make a right mess of being a squire. For reasons it would be many, many years before he understood, though, Maedhros never did send him back to the North. 

In training, Tully beat him within an inch of his life. He set him to awful punishments and tasks. He pulled him along by the ear when he was rude. But he never gave up on making the bastard Celegorm Snow, the Wild Wolf, a knight. And Maedhros was never cruel.

Maedhros didn’t mock Celegorm when he cried for Mother, or speak awfully of her or Brandon Stark, and he didn’t mention the hair. Not even once. And, like an abused dog, eventually Celegorm came forward to take the merciful hand that was offered. On his twelfth birthday, while the were camping in the Riverlands, because Maedhros understood the boy was scared and never took him to any court or city, Celegorm fell asleep against the side of his master, full and content and not frightened. Maedhros’ arm around his shoulders, Celegorm settled into the alien, but so very natural, feeling that they had been here before, under the stars, happy.

Celegorm, when not actively undermining his teacher, proved to be a scarily apt swordsman, and a good jouster, too. He eventually grew the courage to accompany Maedhros to tourneys, which his master hated but attended to please his own father, and gained some renown as a horse-whisper. That skill garnered the interest of Oberyn Martell, and that was how Celegorm met Maedhros’ equally odd friend, Maglor Sand. He had the same expectant eyes as Maedhros. So, Celegorm, all of thirteen, stuck his tongue out at him in retaliation. 

At a tourney in the Vale, Celegorm gained his knighthood. He had calmed the wild, frightened horse of Lord Arryn after a snake found its way onto the jousting grounds, saving the elderly Lord of the Vale from a dangerous fall. Jon Arryn knighted Celegorm Snow himself. He was fifteen. 

He went home after that, and was noted to very reformed. Still wild, his uncles said, but, also, jolly and doting on the little ones and helpful. Slights slid more easily from his shoulders, even if he did punch Roose Bolton for insulting his mother, once. And just like always, he was scolded but not punished for it, and Mother laughed and laughed and cried and bemoaned that he was taller than her.

Celegorm didn’t tarry in the North. He came back, often enough, for Jocelyn and his little Forrester, Stark, and Snow cousins, but spent most of his time in the wild as a hedge knight, wandering and waiting for that thing Maedhros and Maglor were always expecting of him. He joined hunting parties, arrested bandits, won tourneys in the meantime, just to have a little coin.

The other shoe didn’t drop until Celegorm was twenty. It all happened in an instant. He’d just ridden up to Winterfell, and Arya and Bran were screaming. At their heels were puppies, direwolf pups, he didn’t realize until they are already dragging him to the kennel. There, playing with Jon and another pup, _so many direwolves_ , was a little grey and silver canine that was bigger than it should be at that age.

And, in a rush of air from his lungs, Celegorm fell to his knees with the force of it. Already knowing, the little thing trotted up to him, and Celegorm dutifully scooped him into his arms in return. His cousins laughed, but there were very real tears in his eyes, and Celegorm could only choke out one thing.

“Huan.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Caranthir’s first memory was kneeling before a throne. The Iron Throne, specifically, and the king who sat upon it. But neither of those things really mattered to four year-old Caranthir Lannister, he was more focused on the baby that lay in the queen’s arms. A little thing, sickly too, with a small tuft of hair that made him, “a black lion, just like you!”

Crown Prince Curufin Baratheon. 

Caranthir had what his mother called an ‘episode’, while his embarrassed father called it hysteria, but very soon what everyone started to worry about was madness. Caranthir did not speak for seven months after meeting the royal family. The only sound he made, much to Dorna Lannister’s distress, was the shrieks that echoed throughout the stone walls of their home in Lannisport at night. He did not sleep hardly at all for three months, and hardly ever well again. Caranthir simply learned to suffer silently. 

The immense relief of Kevan Lannister when his eldest son finally started using words again cannot be described. He nearly wept, and Dorna actually did. But that period of time in his youth left a permanent stain on the young lord’s reputation. This was mostly because he was always remarked to dour and temperamental, and very quiet until his yelling was very loud, and such qualities were blamed on a childhood insanity. Nevermind that they were traits he shared with his uncle, Tywin, and even Cersei. But rumor about his unstableness also persisted, partly, because of the legend that grew about the first words he spoke after causing such a fuss in front of the newly born prince. 

“Can we go visit Curufin?”

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that Caranthir was simply intrigued by his little cousin, or any baby because he barely blinked at his brother Lancel, or to say that Caranthir simply enjoyed playing with Curufin. Kevan liked claim that he was… dutiful, always demanding to see the future king because he was excited to serve. It was a weak defense for an undeniably odd child.

“Obsessed!” Cersei, a new, young mother who was already pregnant again, would shriek, nervous about the effect of her obviously mad cousin on her baby.

The King was unbothered. He seemed to agree with Kevan, and found little black-haired Caranthir Lannister funny, with his wide, solemn eyes and cute attempts at carrying the baby barely smaller than him around. During the visit where Caranthir was only just beginning to talk again, Robert and Cersei came into the nursery to find the maid watching attentively but nervously from a chair. Caranthir held Prince Curufin in his lap, singing softly and playing with his hands, their very similar gazes caught.

“-and in my dreams, they’re always on my mind, these songs of hobbits, dwarves and men, and elves, come close your eyes. You can see them too.”

The queen was horrified, mostly because she feared and despised her tiny cousin, but also because she had no clue what he was singing to her baby. Robert chuckled though, all good cheer, and scooped both his laughing son and the startled Caranthir into his arms. He asked what Caranthir was singing, who wrote it. 

The boy shrugged, but gave a tiny, conspiratorial smile to his brother’s beloved father. 

“I heard it in my dreams.”

The king laughed. Declared, “a poet in the making!” 

And since Robert allowed Caranthir to visit his young son, there was nothing anyone else’s reservations could do. Curufin would never know a year of his childhood without at least one visit from his cousin, who resolutely spent every ounce of time he could with the little prince. He taught him words, songs, swordplay, and introduced him to a made-up language they used as code. With so much time and care given to him by his cousin, Curufin, who grew into a nervous but earnest, proud, and fiercely loyal boy, couldn't help but love Caranthir, even if he was annoying on occasion. He was certainly better than Joffrey. 

Curufin always called Caranthir, “Moryo,” but for reasons even he didn’t know. Caranthir just taught him to say it when he was three, so the prince did.

It was often said, by many people in public, and Dorna and Kevan in private, that Caranthir liked Prince Curufin better than his own brothers. When confronted, though, Caranthir’s face would simply scrunch up, and a furious flush would settle on his cheeks. He pouted. “That’s not true,” he said, “I love all my brothers, but Curufin needs more help. He always has.” No one understood what that meant, but the boy never spoke sense, and made an effort to spend more time with Lancel, Martyn, and Willem after their talk, so his parents largely let it be. It isn’t a crime, after all, and can’t be a bad thing, to be great friends with a prince.

Kevan gave the half-baked excuse that, when they were children, Tywin was closer to Steffon Baratheon and Aerys II than with him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to say, though, and felt wrong in the ears of all who heard. 

Tywin, for his part, was very intrigued by his young nephew. He had all of Tyrion’s intelligence and none of his deformity. The boy could be odd, but Tywin saw this a positive. Being smarter than your peers and understanding the intricacies and horrors of the world young could only benefit him. He was a trusted companion of the prince, guiding his grandson a sight bit better than either of his parents, and he was surprisingly callous. Caranthir could often be noted to sing tragic and bloody songs, some known, some not, and created his own version ‘The Rains of Castamere’ about someone named Dior. Tywin didn’t have to understand Caranthir’s stories to see the marks of a ruthless strategist in him. Though still determined to see Jaime as Lord of Casterly Rock, Tywin had mused, privately, that Caranthir would do a damn good job of it. Perhaps, Kevan’s son would be an acceptable alternative or backup.

The only detriment to Caranthir, in Tywin’s eyes, was how much time he spent with Tyrion.

Kevan Lannister’s family lived in a manor house outside Lannisport, walking distance from Casterly Rock. They spent a lot of time there. Caranthir, when not following Curufin and keeping him away from trouble or disaster, liked to dog at Tyrion’s heels. It was not something Tyrion, at first, appreciated. Why should he entertain this child who his father liked so much treating him like a curiosity? 

Caranthir never said so, but he followed Tyrion because he reminded him of Nelyo after Angband, just a little. All that intelligence and kindness and charm, twisted and ripped up and mutilated by cruelty. Caranthir was born mean. Others shouldn’t have to be remade that way by bad people.

But, when confronted on why he wished to spend his time in libraries with dwarves, Caranthir smiled, one of his rare pleasant ones. He chirped, a pleased flush to his face, “I like dwarves! They’re better friends than prissy tall people.” He seemed, to Tyrion, to be laughing at a joke only he understood. But Caranthir was always like that, had been since he was a toddler, and spoke that way with everyone. Cautiously, Tyrion brought the boy closer to him and taught him Valyrian letters. 

The Casterly Rock library, it was always noted, was Tyrion and Caranthir’s domain.

When Caranthir was thirteen he begged and pleaded to be sent to King’s Landing to squire, much to Tyrion’s disappointment and scorn. He couldn’t blame the boy, though, no one could, he had no land or title to inherit. His father was only a household knight. Tywin pulled some strings for his favourite nephew, though. Caranthir became King Robert’s squire.

It was, in his words, “a thankless, useless, pointless job!” He’d always been amenable to the king in his youth, but, as his squire, Caranthir grew very critical of Robert. Something Curufin hated. He could not stand to hear his dearest friend since childhood insult his beloved father, and would scream and yell back when Caranthir called him, “fat, lazy, and incapable!”

As the boys had grown they fought often, but about petty, stupid things. They bickered, daily, but that was all. Caranthir had always expected their fights to escalate, though, and it just came to be that Robert was the first real point of contention between them. And Curufin was still so young. Ten, to Caranthir’s fourteen. Curufin broke down crying at one such fight between them, sobbing out, “Father is the greatest king!” He already seemed to know it was untrue.

Caranthir could only watch in horror as the emotional, always emotional and prone to large displays, boy cried and cried, and wished desperately for Celegorm. Cursed him, wherever their elder brother was, for leaving him with this job. It was never him who took care of Curufinwë when they were young, never him who took responsibility for their younger brothers. After Nelyo and Makalaure moved away, Tylekormo stepped up for that role, admirably. He was the one who always said Curufinwë needed more care and watching.

And now, Caranthir was forced to overcome his aversion to physical affection and take his little brother into his stiff arms. “Stop crying,” he griped, searching for better words. “Stop being upset. You are the son of a very great man who never should have had to be king. Not everyone is a king, Curvo, but your father has always been great. And you’re a very good prince, one who will learn from his father. Be a better king.” _Please wake up Curvo, please wake up. You’re a blacksmith not a king!_

He earned his knighthood at sixteen, when Robert was too drunk to participate in the melee battle of a tourney. He commanded his squire to don his armour and fight in his place. It was obvious that it would not fit the boy, but Curufin was able to modify an old pair of Renly’s enough in time.

Caranthir won the melee, much to everyone’s but Curufin’s surprise, because he only really practiced and showed his true skill with his friend. Robert was so pleased he knighted him on the spot. It was one more checked box to Caranthir. All of it, every step of his life since the age of four, had been setting up pieces on a board. Getting himself into a position where he had manoeuvrability. Like Maedhros and Maglor.

Caranthir Lannister had never formally met Maedhros Tully at sixteen. Why would a popular and handsome lordling care about a knight’s young child? But they had met eyes at various tourneys and feasts, exchanged the rare, all business, letter. He sent word that Celegorm was his squire, and still in the dark. Maglor understood, it was known, but Caranthir had only heard of him from reputation, as a very famous bard from Dorne who was a favorite among many Reach courts.

He knew the twins, very little children, and, though they were more Tommen and Myrcella’s playmates than anything, Caranthir tried to spend time with them when he could. Everyone said he was an odd child, but Amrod and Amras Arryn were the ones that unnerved him. Ambarussa, he was sure, have known everything from the beginning, from the womb maybe. They don’t struggle with it. Not like Caranthir.

The only piece missing, besides Celegorm being slow as usual, when Caranthir gained his independence, was Curufinwë. And then they had a feast to celebrate Caranthir’s knighthood.

__________________________________________________________________________

Curufin Baratheon was born with hair as black as his father’s, barely eleven months after the end of what would soon be called ‘Robert’s Rebellion’. His brother, Joffrey, was born ten months later, his mother’s golden spitting image. Before they could even consciously form those thoughts, Curufin and Joffrey understood on an intrinsic level that Curufin was Robert’s favorite and Joffrey was Cersei’s. It was obvious, and their jealousy of one another ran rampant, never to be curbed by their parents. It was more than enough to stir rivalry, even in toddlers.

The crown prince, as he grew, pushed aside that hurt and tried to never mourn this. He didn’t want Joffrey, or Cersei. He didn't.

Curufin loved Father and Caranthir more than anyone else in the world, and they were all he needed. 

He did not like many people, found them profoundly useless on the whole, and could not stand scheming or flattery. He didn’t have many friends. Any friends, besides Caranthir and maybe the blacksmith’s apprentice. As a child becoming an adolescent, he loved his mother but did not like her. He tolerated Myrcella and Tommen, loved them as one does a sibling they aren’t close to, as they were little and boring, and thought they were in need of looking after. He was weirdly fond of the Arryn twins, who never blinked at his status or impressive, nigh permanent glare, even though they were Myrcella’s age. He neither liked nor loved Joffrey. In fact, even at the ages of twelve and eleven, the animosity between them was bordering on hate. Joffrey wasn’t his brother, Curufin was sure of that, not the way Caranthir and Tommen were. Joffrey was a word he didn’t know yet.

Sometimes, he caught himself accidently starting to sneer, “half-brother.”

He would always remember the first time his brother tried to kill him. They were seven and six, and Myrcella was still a babe. The royal family was making a procession through the streets of King’s Landing. As they walked, Robert waving and smiling, Cersei sneering and sniffing, Curufin stayed glued to his father’s side, holding his massive hand. Joffrey was gripping the back of Mother’s dress as she clutched Myrcella to her chest, and their family even looked divided, an invisible line seemed to divide the black and gold.

Curufin was an awkward child, one with strange proclivities and too many questions. He was very, very obviously smart, a different kind of intelligence from Caranthir, and one the king and queen didn’t know how to properly stimulate. Walking down the streets was like taking in a million sensations at once, and he was so overwhelmed he could hardly breath, frightened out of his wits. And then, a blast of hot air hit him, and Curufin looked between the legs of the King’s Guard to stare into a workshop.

He didn’t know, yet, what it was called. But there was a man with a hammer, smaller than Father’s, banging, clanging, tanging. He hit something that glowed, and sparks were flying and everything in there glittered and shown. Curufin stopped moving, let go of Father’s hand, just to stand there entranced. Uncle Jaime even ran into him, as the rest of the procession kept moving.

It caused a commotion, everyone coming to a halt and scrambling. “Your Highness, Prince Curufin, what is it? What’s wrong?” they asked, and Father turned around to level a glare at him. Normally he would have been miserable to know he’d disappointed the king. But he was struck-dumb by the beauty of it, and all he could do was point, point into that doorway of gorgeous scenes and blurt out, “hammer!

“Hammer!” And Robert laughed, suddenly and all at once, his moods so changeable like his son’s, pleased to hear the boy mention his weapon of choice. He hoisted Curufin into his arms, the way he never did with ill-tempered Joffrey, and went in the blacksmith’s with the brunette child, leaving the golden stags behind without a thought. 

The king spent half an hour with the blacksmith, Tobho Mott, with his hand on the crown prince’s shoulder, while Curufin ask a million questions about armor and swords and hammers. “Aye,” Robert declared in that booming voice of his, “You’ll be following in your old man’s footsteps won’t you? A warrior in training, already reaching for a hammer!”

Curufin didn’t care about war hammers or being a warrior. But smithing… Never in his life had anything felt so right to the little boy. Not even Caranthir.

Cersei stood in the doorway with her babe and the younger boy, glowering imperiously. Joffrey, all of six, grew antsy and angry, so very bitter that he wasn’t being paid attention to. Thirty minutes was all they spent, though Curufin could have stayed for days, because Joffrey began his temper-tantrum. He screamed and yelled, kicked and bit at Mother and the guards. He reached for things at random, throwing dangerous and expensive tools of war. Joffrey picked up a knife and stabbed at Barristan Selmy’s foot. He threw the knife at his brother from barely a foot away, “hate you!”, and the blade managed to graze the crown prince’s cheek.

Curufin bled, eyes wide with shock. But he didn’t cry.

The procession was cancelled and the royal family went home. Mother called it an accident, blamed it on Robert’s “stupid little detour,” and Joffrey wasn’t punished. But Curufin knew instantly. His treacherous little brother, hiding behind his vile golden mother, had tried to kill him.

He wrote Caranthir of all his anger and indignation, because he was absolutely not afraid, and the older boy was in King’s Landing within a fortnight. It wouldn’t be his birthday for another three months but Moryo gave Curufin a beautifully forged and jeweled knife. 

It turned out to be a very practical gift. Joffrey only got worse, and bolder, as time dragged on, even if a wave of a real weapon was often enough to deter him. One time Curufin found a snake in his bed, another there was an incident involving stairs and a toy ball chucked at the back of his head. And, of course, there was the crossbow debacle in the King's Wood. 

He dared not tell Father, but he did request to start training with a sword, because surely a bigger weapon would be a bigger deterrent, and was enthusiastically granted that desire. He and Caranthir practiced brawling, as well, because Joff alway backed off when a hand was raised. That had to stop hand-to-hand training though, because Mother was beside herself when Curufin showed up to dinner with a black-eye courtesy of her cousin once. Curufin tried not to be confused and hurt by how he now had a scar courtesy of his brother and she didn’t bat an eye, but she would throw Caranthir in the dungeons for such a minor thing.

Curufin proved capable with a sword, and more than willing to get dirty in order to learn. But his enthusiasm for the art was passing, built of curiosity for the weapon and a desire to please Father, not to mention protect himself. Robert was disappointed that the child was always happier in a library, a ‘fault’ he was quick to point out when drunk and unhappy. But Curufin couldn’t help it. 

He was reading about gemstones and metal. One couldn’t learn smithing from a book. But Curufin could damn well try. 

He was nine when he started loitering around the smithy in the Red Keep. There was only one, that was derelict, and the smith's job was strictly to fix equipment, but when Curufin could escape from his Maester's eye he always found himself loitering around the fires and tongs. He was nearly eleven when he made his way back to Tobho Mott. 

Curufin went, by design, during one of Caranthir’s rare trips back to Lannisport, as he was King Robert’s squire by then and living in the Red Keep full time. Though he confided almost everything in Caranthir, trusted him with all his secrets, he would need time to make sure his cousin couldn’t object. The older boy was relentless in his attempts to keep Curufin from doing anything ‘dangerous’ or ‘irrevocably stupid’ or ‘rash’. If Curufin wanted to learn smithing he had to prove he could do it safely first, lest he be forbidden.

The boy went to the Street of Steel after dinner, clad like one of the smallfolk. He’d snuck out of the keep through the servants corridors, the ones he’d mapped over his childhood, and knocked on Mott’s door with a small bag of gold. “Teach me,” he said, “I’ll pay and you won’t even have to board me. I come most nights after dinner and stay until midnight.”

One did not simply say no to a prince.

Mott worked late into the night anyway, and the boy was a natural, a prodigy. It didn’t take but a few months before Mott could leave Curufin in the care of his apprentice, as neither of them needed supervision. Their arrangement quickly became very lucrative for Mott, who got free labor for his simple projects, and, as the prince progressed, he would occasionally leave some of his works, beautiful and of high quality, with Mott to sell. Also, very often, the child brought his own materials, smuggling things like solid gold vases from his room and broken swords from the royal armoury to the shop to be melted down and repurposed. 

Materials, pieces to sell, a prodigy apprentice. It was perfect for Mott!

Gendry, though, relatively new as well, hated ‘Fin’. At least, at first. The way he walked, talked, stood. Blue-blood. All of it. Fin didn’t need this job. He was here for fun.

Yet, he worked hard. And he listened to Gendry, without a hint of distaste or backtalk, eager to learn from one only a year older than him. Fin proved easy to talk to, awkward and refined, but excitable and determined. Gendry thought he was too smart sometimes, and naive, but he gave Gendry things, projects he’d worked on, expensive ones, not out of pity but from gratitude and hope. He wanted to impress Gendry, gain his approval. That was an odd feeling, hard to process. But Fin was great to work with, and a decent companion. He might call them friends.

Caranthir, of course, came back to King’s Landing, but he didn’t throw quite the fit Curufin was expecting. It came to light that Varys had known of his excursions the whole time, and told Lord Arryn, who had a guard posted to follow him. Caranthir seemed pleased that Curufin was smithing, oddly so, and once he learned of Varys and Arryn’s schemes he was very amendable. He still accompanied Curufin most nights, though. To ‘watch after him’.

They still had to hide his nightly excursions from Father with the utmost care, unfortunately. Robert wouldn’t… he just wouldn’t understand. It tasted bitter, to lie to Father, and Curufin was only just learning the king had folly, great folly, so it hurt deeply. But this was a necessary evil. Curufin had to work in the smithy. He’d lose his mind otherwise.

The day Caranthir was knighted was a stressful, but great day. It was an awful night. 

It started well, with a feast, and the minstrels were playing. Curufin had never paid much attention to music of any kind, never given heed to song. But they started a diddy, something new from the Reach, where a Dornish bard was gaining some notoriety, and the tune sounded familiar, like a half remembered dream. Curufin focused upon the song, listening for the lyrics. 

_When hours have gone by, I’ll close my eyes, in a world far away, we may meet again, but now hear my song, about the dawn of the night, let’s sing the bards’ song._

And then he retched, spitting up a mouthful of the wine he had been hiding from Mother and Caranthir. He choked and coughed, but the prince barely noticed, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for breath. He was sobbing. Black tendrils played at the edges of his vision, and, as a lifetime poured into the banks of his memory, he didn’t quite fall unconscious.

But if anyone asked him to remember how Caranthir led him to his room he couldn’t recount it.

Father… his father was Feanaro! No, Robert. No! Baratheon was a drunken fool, but, his father was great. Certainly, Robert was great, too… Right? _His father was, had always been, a king_ … Mother sculpted or Mother plotted? He had a sister. Didn’t he? Curufin was a prince… a blacksmith… and husband, a _father_ , a killer. 

He thrashed and doubled over, felt Caranthir’s hands in his hair and on his arm. Caranthir was his brother! No matter the world that was true. And that constant was enough, just enough for Curufin to gather some bearing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” he bellowed at Moryo’s stricken egaze. His brother didn’t answer, eyes sad and hug sympathetic. Swaddled in his brother’s arms, least favorite brother or most beloved person in this world he no long knew, as Curufin ripped at his hair, he realized that Caranthir had tried to tell him. Their language, his father the “great”, the blacksmithing, and the superstitious stories of their youth.

His childhood lullabies… Curufinwë wailed.

__________________________________________________________________________

Amrod once said, causing his twin’s mouth to twist up and his eyes to flash with pain, that it was kind of funny. 

“In one life, we lost our mother and our father went insane. In this one, we lose our father and our mother is the mad one.” 

Jon Arryn died suddenly, leaving behind a hysterical wife, a pair of co-dependent nine year-old sons, and a sickly six year-old. And a realm on the brink of disaster.

Amrod and Amras might not have noticed how, without Lord Arryn’s presence, the Seven Kingdoms were about to fall apart, little as they looked, but they were over six hundred years old. They knew what was happening, the twins had seen it before. They actually understood the situation better this time around, young and convinced that their father was infallible as Ambarussa were in their first life. 

It was a different time. They were different people.

Babes are not meant to be born with memories. It was too much for them to process, to sharp and tangled, especially the nigh perfect recollections of elves. Complicated. The Arryn twins were strange babies, unspeakably so, because they switched between utterly non-responsive to hysterical screeching all the time. They rejected their parents, almost wholesale, from the very beginning. They became kinder, as they grew, but never needed or wanted a mother or father, much to the detriment of Lysa’s mental health and Jon’s heart. 

They were sorry, once they were old enough to properly process the hurt they so easily gave, but also could not do anything to fix the problem. Not really.

They baffled everyone, because they were children with no wants, they never asked for anything or demanded attention. They were too… informed, as well. They were born knowing how to read, but not how to read Westerosi. Amrod and Amros tried, from their very first moments, to make words, their tiny lips moving but not managing to form anything. They babbled to each other, in something that Lysa called nonsense but Jon recognized as the secret code of Prince Curufin and Caranthir Lannister. They learned the Common Tongue with ease, though, despite their own language, and spoke with perfect grammar before the age of two. It was truly incredible how they learned, and the depth of their maths skills. No one called the boys prodigies, but only because Lord Arryn kept his odd children largely away from anyone besides servants and family, sequestering them in the Tower of the Hand or the Eyrie.

Lysa was too busy trying to have more children, more normal, kinder children who didn’t recoil from her soft hands and wrongly colored eyes. After Robert was born, she hardly spoke to Amrod and Amras, too consumed with the son who needed her, wanted her as a child should their mother. She dismissed any and all odd behaviour that Jon demanded she examine as some family trait. Maedhros was a strange child, too. 

Watching his weirdly capable and academic children, Jon considered on several occasions sending Amrod to Oldtown. But, no, he never dwelled on the idea for long. It would be cruel, and impossible, to remove the twins from each other. They were entirely, and obviously, inseparable.

They refused being placed in different rooms. They would not be bathed without the other. All lessons, even the ones about ruling the Vale that were only pertinent to Amras, were taken together. The twins held hands and whispered and when they played hiding games with Myrcella and Tommen, they squeezed into a closet as one.

“Never,” Amras growled at his mother once, when she tried to make the younger twin go fetch Robert while he was to stay at the table, “never again will we be sundered from one another.”

Lord Arryn, watching his wife burst into tears, just wondered where a four year-old learned the word ‘sundered’. Both boys went to go grab their baby brother. 

But, it wasn’t their fault. Given the knowledge they were forced to live with from the beginning of their days, it was a wonder, in Caranthir’s eyes, who longed to go to the reclusive Arryn twins, that Ambarussa weren’t more damaged. 

Amrod was born knowing what it meant to be burned alive. Amras could use his first halting words to recount the best ways to kill elves, orcs, dwarves, and men. 

They talked about these things, beneath the covers of one of their beds, they had two but only ever slept in one, Amras recounting battles and sieges and painful things for Amrod who missed so much. They whispered about their brothers, very often. Caranthir and Curufin more than the others, because they did live in a keep together. 

Caranthir, they are told, they met as babes, but they could no longer remember this meeting because of their fallible human memories. Moryo knew everything, had for a long time, since Curvo’s birth apparently, and was always willing to lend an ear or provide an excuse for odd behaviour. Not that they needed it very often. They had each other, and, besides, Lysa Arryn hated Caranthir, thought he was a mad Lannister, so he was not permitted to see them much. Mostly, they met when he found them playing with Myrcella and Tommen. 

Curufin was twelve when he became Curufinwë once more, and he was much angrier and very defensive afterwards. Amrod and Amras approached him, thrice before their father died, and he was receptive, confused and hurt, but he threw his arms around Amrod and didn’t let go for a long time. He and the king were fighting, and the twins couldn’t imagine what it must have been like trying to compare the father you’ve loved you’re entire life to Feanaro. They never had that problem. 

In one of the few instances they disagreed, and fought, it was because Amras was somewhat relieved to find that Feanor Blackfyre was killed a decade before they were even born. Amrod was not, and cried for hours.

Maedhros came to visit, rather often actually, except for those few years he took Tyleko as his squire and refused to travel to King’s Landing. He was their uncle, which was both odd and not odd. He had always been so much older than them. But he was dotting, and he knew everything, so did not think them weird or scary. His presence was a relief, and all that pain and fear that they could never show their parents would come flooding out with Maedhros. He had always been, from the time before the sun, more their father than Jon Arryn could ever hope to be, not matter how much the old man tried or how much love he gave them.

They were sorry. But they were born with full knowledge of and love for and loyalties to another family, and they cared more about bastards they didn’t know than they ever could ‘Sweetrobin’.

They had not met Celegorm Snow or Maglor Sand, yet. How odd, that five of them were born into positions of great power and prestige, while Kano and Turko were given perhaps the lowest caste of life in Westeros. It did not escape Ambarussa’s notice that the sons of Feanor had been scattered into almost every major house of the Seven Kingdoms, no matter how high, mediocre, or dishonorable the position. 

The twins has discussed, on several occasions, what Eru’s plan must be and how the Reach did or did not fit into it. They were just grateful they weren’t split up for the sake of equality.

Amrod and Amras did not plan, not like Maedhros, or plot like Caranthir, but they did learn to play the game. Every member of the household of Arryn knew there was something wrong with the lord’s twin sons, but to the outside world they could not be more perfect heirs.

Not only were they terribly intelligent children, unbelievable quick studies, but they were not as frail as their brother and able to ride, shoot, and duel. Amrod and Amras proved very good at all those things, in fact, during their few trips back to the Eyrie, pleasing all of their father’s lords. They went hunting with Harrold Hardyng, Yohn Royce, and Horton Redfort, and Amras impressed everyone by shooting down a partridge at only seven.

They were jolly, especially the older they got, and made friends easily, with children all across the Vale, and especially Myrcella.

They adored Myrcella, who was clever and kind and very willing to get into mischief, but sweet enough to always get out of it. The amount of pies they’d stolen from the kitchen together could have fed an army, and they would occasionally steal quills from Joffrey. Not because he ever noticed or cared, he did not, but for the thrill of it and petty revenge. 

Myrcella once declared that she would marry them, and the twins had to ask her to choose one. She giggled, and said she would marry Amrod, because Amras would be Lord of the Vale and the younger twin deserved to win something. Amras pretended to be offended, and the children went to fetch Tommen, who Myrcella insisted be invited to all games, lest he be alone and catch Joffrey’s attention, and played ‘kill the dragon’ in the garden. 

Amrod and Amras were children, ones burdened with incredible knowledge, but their minds were still developing and their bodies still growing. They were, despite their great aptitude and potentially scary capabilities, helpless. 

Jon Arryn died. Lysa Arryn took Sweetrobin and escaped to the Vale. Stannis Baratheon had been planning on fostering the youngest Arryn at Dragonstone, as a favor to Jon, but with the mother planning to flee, there was no reason he couldn't take the far more important twins. 

Amrod and Amras were nine, and they were pawns. Ambarussa couldn’t help but think, from the hull of a ship, _‘once again’_.

Another game of thrones had been launched. Perhaps, this time, the sons of Feanor would win.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you're interested, leave a comment and I might actually tackle this massive mess and make a proper chapter fic from it, where Feanorions ruin everything and the plot of asoiaf gets wrecked. Either way, any and all kudos and comments are immensely appreciated!
> 
> EDIT: I have an outline for the new and improved Feanorion version of 'A Game of Thrones', so look out for that if I ever get anything finished.
> 
> EDIT the sequel: First chapter is up. It's called 'From North to Uttermost South.'
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, come talk, I love to chat: https://amethysttribble.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks! -AT


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